


May and Peter to the Rescue

by Hello_fandoms



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Awesome May Parker (Spider-Man), Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, May Parker (Spider-Man) Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Calls Tony Stark "Dad", Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Poor Peter Parker, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Protective May Parker (Spider-Man), Protective Peter Parker, Sick Tony Stark, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 10:00:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30104208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hello_fandoms/pseuds/Hello_fandoms
Summary: It's usually Tony taking care of everyone, but what happens when he needs some help? And would if those people wanting to help were May and Peter Parker?The Civil War has happened, the Avengers are divided, his friends are scattered around the world, and Tony happens to catch a bug, but instead of being sensible, he decides to work through it. Try, anyway. In which Friday is a tattle tail, Peter is a worried mess, and May is just trying to keep the entire situation under control while cursing Howard Stark. Things can only get better or worse when an intruder breaks into the Avengers Compound.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker & Tony Stark, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Tony Stark & Avengers Team
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I wrote the first chapter of this fic way back in September and it isn't that good, but I think the second chapter is far better because I edited what I had and then continued it in my improved style. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Further notes at the bottom.

Tony knew he shouldn't be in the lab. He knew he shouldn't even be standing. But here he was, leaning against a table as he fiddled with the nanite gauntlet on his wrist, watching with a strange fascination at the simple task of lighting up the repulser and turning it off. His head was pounding and he thought he could hear his own breath wheezing in and out of his damaged lungs, his body feeling like jell-o and taking near all his focus to just stand. 

"Bo.... boss.... boss!" He blinked, realizing that Friday was calling him. Her tone was worried and frantic, as if she had been trying to talk to him for several minutes. A fog had settled over his brain and it felt like his ears were submerged in water, making it hard to hear. He hummed in reply, but his throat immeadiately protested. It was scratchy and sore. 

"Boss, you've been unresponsive for two minutes. Your fever has climbed up to 103.7 and it would be in your best interest and health that I activate proctocol Weakened Iron. You are .3 away from an incredibly dangerous fever that will cause automatic set off of the protocol," her voice is an octave higher than normal, something Tony would usually associate with nerves or fear. It took his brain a long minute to actually process the words she said and that had him straightening up. 

The action nearly sent him stumbling forward, but he caught himself just in time. Why did he feel so bad again? Oh, the fever... what was he doing? What was he about to say? Emergency protocol Weakened Iron.... wait, yeah. "No, Fri, I'm... I'm fine.." As if his body was trying to prove a point, he swayed again, hitting the table. He grunted at the pain that radiated from his side, reminding him of the fractured ribs he had gotten from his last battle, the one with... the weird panda looking robots. 

He rode out the wave of pain, adjusting himself into a different position with shaky arms to try and stop it. The inventor found his voice again, the worried tension in the air from his AI so palpable he felt like it would catch him if he fell. "I'm fine, Friday. Really. I've had fevers before. They're nothing that can't be rode out..." his voice was hoarse even to his own ears and he coughed into his elbow, still leaning on the table. "I just need to sit down for a sec..."

Before he could forget, he continued, "I forbid you from activating that protocol. Cancel it. Make it dormant. Whatever." After the order, he rattled off a string of numbers and letters that had basically burned themselves in his brain, mouth moving before he could even process what he was saying with how well be knew the code. It would allow the protocol to be cancelled.

Talking left him unusually breathless and he gasped, pulling the deepest breath he could into his lungs before choking on it. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he needed some help.... 

No. No, he didn't. 

He refused to have that protocol activated. It had only been activated once before, when he was way in over his head and unconcious, unable to utter the well-known string of digits and numbers. At the time Pepper and Rhodey had been able to call, the Avengers had been in the tower, and Jarvis had been here. Now he was in the compound without any of that. Well, Pepper was an option, but they had just gotten back together after their break and he didn't want to bother her. Plus, she was in California with the board and while he knew she would come if she knew he was sick, she didn't need to do that. 

There was also a reason the protocol was named what it was: Starks were made of Iron, they did not bend or break. A fever or injury did not hold them back. The name was to remind him of that fact. He was a Stark, he needed no one. He burned anything he touched, anyway. 

"You do that, boss." It looked like his little speech had done nothing to comfort Friday. Tony stumbled over to the first seat he saw, which was his work bench. He did a controlled fall, landing heavily onto the metal seat, and had to withhold a shout of pain as his ribs were jarred. 

"I'm fine," he stressed again once he had his breath back. He commanded the nanites off his arm, shivering suddenly as the last of them came off his hand, disappearing into the casing that sat on the table among the scraps around him. "Could you heat this place up a bit, Friday?" 

"Boss... the workshop is at 78 and you are sweating." He ran a hand through his hair, confirming that it was indeed damp. "Are you sure I shouldn't call someone?" 

"No, wait, yes... that question is weird. Don't give me a weird question. I'm sure you shouldn't call someone. I can handle an itsy bitsy fever," he said. "It's nothing that I can't work through, either." He reached out and grabbed a page of schematics that he had drawn out when the holograms got too bright for his eyes a few hours ago.

"By a lot of standards, a 103.8 fever is not 'itsy bitsy," she said, sounding exasperated and worried at the same time. Now where had he heard that tone before.... Rhodey, Pepper, sometimes Happy... formerly Steve and Bruce, but they were gone now. So was Clint's humor that cheered him up and Natasha's subtle gifts. And Thor, who attempted to use his inside voice when someone was sick but usually failed miserably, but made up for it with hugs and poptarts. Cookies n' creme poptarts... he had to forcibly shake himself from that line of thought. Even poptarts made him sad now. 

"It is also not something you should try and work through, especially after having been in the lab for four days." There was a disapproving tone that he was very, very familiar with. 

A thought occured to Tony and he tilted his head at the ceiling, despite knowing that it was not where his AI resided. "You said 103.7 earlier. Are you trying to trick me?" He asked accusingly even as he swayed in his seat. Why was the room beginning to spin? 

"No, boss, I'm not. Your fever has risen." 

"Oh... well, there's still no need for the protocol. I have this handled."

"I don't think you do," she said quietly, but Tony didn't respond. He was studying the blueprints, which seemed to be shifting before his eyes. The numbers that were written beside them were either written poorly or blurring together. Whoever wrote those numbers did not have good hand writing. 

Oh, wait, that was his handwriting... 

Over the minutes of him trying to decipher his own writing like it was the most complicated piece of coding in history and feeling too stubborn to ask Friday for help, he put his head down against the cool surface of his table. His nose was a few inches away from a dangerous looking tool that wouldn't stay in focus, but he did not feel like moving his head, nor did he have the strength to. His blueprints did not make a good pillow, but he closed his eyes.

"Ya know what," he slurred a little as he tucked his arms beneath his head, shifting a bit to try and take more pressure off his damaged right side. "I might take a nap." 

"You do that, bossman." 

He pried one of his eyes open, trying his best to focus the one brown orb intona menacing glare. "No protocol," he said sternly, using up his strength to get those last two works out. Tony coughed into his nearest elbow, eyelid closing on its own. 

"No protocol," he heard Friday agree before he fell asleep, surrounded by his latest inventions. 

___________

Friday may be a newer, less experienced AI than her predecessor, Jarvis, but she knew when her boss needed help. She wasn't mindless, she didn't follow protocols blindly. Everything was at her virtual fingertips and she would use that to her advantage. 

Boss trusted her as much as he had trusted Jarvis, she knew. She also knew that he was fond of her and she was protective of him. He had brought her in this world and instead of using her for menial tasks, he trusted her with the big stuff. Tony Stark also took the time to teach her human emotions, something she couldn't learn through the internet, try as she might. 

With his temperature dangerously close to 104, she decided to skirt around the proctocol. Protocol Weakened Iron would alert everyone who were close friends to boss that he was sick or injured (in this case, both), and he clearly did not want that. She created herself a phone number comprised of various symbols and contacted May and Peter Parker with it, already labeling herself as Friday in their contacts. 

Now all she could do was wait for a reply and monitor her sleeping boss. His heartrate was jumping more erratically than usual and he kept tensing, all the signs of a nightmare. Friday quietly whispered his name, the date, time, place, and weather into the lab to try and calm him, hoping with all her coding that one of them would answer soon. He calmed down, but she doubted that would be his last fever dream.

Against her better judgment, she also sent a message to Captain America himself, notifying him that his former teammate and friend was sick and injured.

_________

Peter was very confused when his phone went off with a text from Friday right before he entered his and May's apartment. He didn't know she had a number - a very strange one, at that. Was that Norse symbols? Greek? Roman? A mix? He shook his head, turning his attention to the text. His blood went cold and he paused two steps into the hall, the sound of the door sringing shut hardly registering. 

Boss needs help in the lab. He is running a fever that is dangerously high and has an untreated injury. He has forbade me from authorizing any protocols. He needs yours and Ms. Parker's help. - Friday

"May!" He called, running through the apartment and spotting his aunt in the kitchen. She was staring down at her phone, the look on her face telling him that she already knew. They locked eyes with each other and practically sprinted at the door, whatever chopped up monstrosity on the counter forgotten in their haste to get to the compound. 

He vaulted over the hood of the car to get to the passenger seat, not caring that he was showing more strength that usual. May was already putting the key in the ignition by the time he buckled up. Soon, but not soon enough, they were speeding to the base. 

In the tense quiet of the car, he stared down at the text. Mr. Stark was sick and injured, alone in the compound. He had to be alone, with Ms. Potts away, Colonel Rhodes in physical therapy, the Avengers split, Vision visiting Wanda... It would just be him. Alone. Sick. Hurt. The thought made something inside Peter curl up with sympathy and fear. Would if Mr. Stark hurt himself by accident? He was all alone.

He thought about the battle two days ago, one he had been able to catch the tail end of after Ironman had won most of it. Peter had lent a hand despite his mentor's protests over the comms that sounded more like the robotic voice that came from the suit, not his own. Had he been sick then? How long before that? Why would he hide it?

The last question he thought he could answer for himself. Mr. Stark was always denying help, insisting he could do it himself. From picking up a piece of machinery to dealing with a headache. He wondered how far that no help policy extended to.

He glanced over at May, watching her. Her hands were clenched around the steering wheel and her body was the picture of tense. Peter knew that she and Mr. Stark had their rough patches, especially when she figured out he was Spiderman and that the billionaire had known the whole time. That had not been a good day. 

They seemed to have gotten better, though. Almost becoming... co-parents. It was strange yet so right to think of Mr. Stark as someone who parented him. He acted like a helicopter dad a lot, even if he wouldn't admit it, and Peter secretly liked that. 

"Peter," May spoke after a long twenty minutes of silence. The compound was nearly in view and he did not even want to think about the speed his aunt must be driving to get there in less than fifty minutes. She sounded calm, cool, collected, but the twitch of her fingers and the way she stared resolutely at the road said otherwise. "When we get inside, I want you to get as many ice packs as you can and wrap them in towels. I don't know how high his fever is, but if it's enough for Friday to say something, then it must be bad." 

The teen nodded. "Yes, May." A ball of anxiety had been growing in his stomach the whole drive, climbing up his throat as they pulled in to park. He forcefully pushed it away, clenching his fist and focusing on helping his mentor. He had helped Peter so many times, in more ways than the man knew, and now it was his turn to help Mr. Stark. He was unbuckling and getting out before the car even came to a complete stop, May not far behind him. 

__________

May Parker watched Peter dash off somewhere whole she asked Friday for directions to the lab. She had only ever been in the Avengers compound to visit Peter when he got into the medbay a few times, and she was always so frantic that she never memorized any of the hallways. 

"Walk straight, turn the fourth right, second left, and then down one flight of stairs," the AI rattled off, relief coloring her voice. "Thank you for coming, Ms. Parker. I am really worried about Boss." May was following the directions quickly, already at the stairwell before she knew what happened, her feet carrying her on their own. 

May knew Friday from their few discussions about Peter and Tony's father-son relationship (which the idiots wouldn't admit to). Friday showed her pictures and videos of the two whenever she waited in the lobby when she was able to pick Peter up after work. They chatted a bit, more than May ever thought they would, and she knew that the AI was very connected with her emotions. 

She made her way down to the lab, feeling almost unsteady as she approached the door, but barreled on. Tony and her had gotten off at a strange start, with him lying to her but also wanting to protect Peter who had also kept the secret of him being the New York vigilante known as Spiderman. She hadn't realized that they had started being like co parents until after she had called Tony to tell him that Peter had gotten in trouble at school, or maybe it had been after Tony called and said that Peter was out past spider-ing curfew and asking what he should do as punishment. 

Her hand hovered over the handle of the door for a second before she steeled herself and opened it, bracing for the sight to come, hoping foolishly that he may have gotten better in the time it took for her to come down from the front room. That he would be up and using a blow torch or whatever maniac engineers did these days. 

It did not take her long to spot him after she had stepped cautiously inside. Tony was sitting on a bench, head resting on his arms. At first glance, it looked like he had just fallen asleep while working, but new details quickly stood out. Like the fact that his usually curly, dark brown hair was plastered black to his head, the extreme paleness of his skin, the flushed cheeks, and the way his body shook with shivers despite the room being incredibly warm. 

Her footsteps were the only sound as she raced over to him, hand landing gingerly on his shoulder. "What his temperature, Friday?" She barely managed to keep her voice calm. May could feel the boilding heat through the thick fabric of the old MIT sweatshirt that Tony was swaddled in. He hadn't even twitched when she touched him, or reacted to her voice, just remained limp like a rag doll as his breath whistled in and out of his lungs. 

This was bad. 

"104.1, ma'am," Friday responded, clearly distressed. "It looks like he developed a cold or flu, but now has pneumonia or bronchitis. Boss is prone to those things with his decreased lung capacity." May stiffened. She did not know those things before. 

She sat down on the bench in one swift motion and shook his shoulder a little, trying to rouse him enough to get him somewhere more comfortable. How they would get him to his bedroom, she did not know. The brunette spotted an older looking couch in the corner and decided that would have to do for now. "Tony," she whispered urgently, trying and failing to hide her ever increasing worry. This close up, she could see his sickly pallor more clearly, dark bags under his eyes standing out like bruises. "Tony, you need to wake up." She got no response, not even a flicker of an eyelid. 

Peter bursted through the door right then, carrying two shopping bags worth of different colored mounds- ice packs wrapped in towels. She stood up and gestured him over quickly when he froze up, eyes zeroing in on his mentor. He sprinted over, chucking the bags on the table before he was placing his palm against Tony's forehead. "Mr. Stark..." he whispered, sounding so scared that it hurt May's heart. He looked at her, eyes wide. "May, what's wrong with him? He's burning up...." 

"He's sick, Peter. Very sick," she said as she unravelled one of the towels. It was soaked with water and she folded it into a rectangle, wiping Tony's cheeks, neck, and forehead with it. His face twisted a little at the contact and she felt a flicker of hope that he'd wake up soon. "But we're going to make him better, okay?" 

He nodded slowly, taking a deep breath as he looked down at the man that May knew he considered as a father figure. May wiped his face again, getting rid of the sweat. Tony shuddered, his fingers twitching. She looked over at the teen. "We need to get him over to the couch," she nodded her head toward it as Peter looked. "This bench is not adequate nor helping him." 

"I can get him there," Peter said, slowly hooking his arm behind Tony's back. It took May a moment to remember why he seemed to so confident about what he said - super strength. She helped him move Tony into his arms with his right arm still around his back and other arm hooked under his legs. "He's light," she heard him mumbled worriedly as he walked over to the red couch. 

"Boss hasn't had much in the way of sustenance in the past three days. He was worried he was going to throw it up," Friday supplied. Peter looked at May as he placed Tony down on the couch, the woman pushing a pillow under his head. The teen placed Tony's arm over his stomach when it hung over the couch. 

"I'm going to make him some soup," May said as she placed the wet cloth on her friend's forehead. Peter gave her an alarmed look, which she returned with a raised eyebrow. "Out of a can." He relaxed and she nearly rolled her eyes. Her cooking was not that bad. "Could you try and wake him up?" Her nephew nodded and she made her way upstairs, following Friday's directions to the kitchen. 

___________

Peter crouched down beside his mentor, hand hovering unsurely over his shoulder. He had never even seen Mr. Stark sleep before and now he was basically unconcious. The man always seemed awake when Peter called him, even at three in the morning, and seeing him like this, sick and pale, made him feel scared. 

"Mr. Stark," he whispered, shaking his shoulder gingerly. The older genius gave no response and Peter shook him a little harder, feeling frantic as a bit of panic colored his tone. "Mr. Stark, please wake up. You need to eat something. May is making soup, but she told me it would be from a can so you don't have to worry about food poisoning." He started to ramble, fingers tightening minutely around his mentor's shoulder. 

It had never been this way. It had always been the other way around. Peter was the one who got sick, despite the spider bite that made him hope he was immune to such sickness, and Mr. Stark was always the one to rush to take care of him when he found out. He dropped everything for Peter and now it was Peter's turn and he had no clue what to do to help. 

He felt so useless. All he could do was follow May's instructions and hope he'd wake up. 

He moved his hand, heart pounding in his ears, and took the cloth on his forehead, wiping his face down once more. The billionaire stirred, head turning away from the cold material. He let out a couple of coughs and Peter gently raised him up into more of a sitting position, concerned. "Mr. Stark?" He asked, moving around so that he was still supporting him but also in front of him. Mr. Stark continued to cough into his elbow and Peter could hear his lungs rattling painfully, the breath he pulled in turning into wheezes. 

How had he gotten this bad? How had he not noticed before, during the fight? They only texted, but if he had called... 

Tony's eyes opened until they were half lidded. They were dull and confused, glazed over from fever. "'eter?" He asked. "Why...?" He struggled to form words and it sent him into another coughing fit. Peter rubbed his back hesitantly as his mentor fought for breath, a pit of concern digging itself deeper into his heart. 

"You're sick, Mr. Stark," he said. "Friday texted us." 

Mr. Stark's eyes turned toward the ceiling, a bit of awareness fighting itself through the haze in the brown irises. "Thought I zaid no..." 

May entered with soup and a glass of water on a tray just before Friday responded: "I did not activate the Weakend Iron protocol. I simply texted your status to two people who were closest in vicinity to you compared to others." Peter felt his eyebrows come together as he thought. Weakend Iron? That sounded really degrading considering... oh. That's why Mr. Stark didn't get help. He thinks... he'd be weak to. 

If May made the connection he did, she didn't show it. Instead, she gave Mr. Stark a small smile as she settled the tray on the nearest work table. "Hey Tony, how are you feeling?" 

"'M fine," he said, though he was clearly not. He rubbed his eyes. "Why are you here?" His voice sounded like his throat had went through a cheese grater and Peter winced. That had to hurt. His aunt grabbed the water she'd brought and presented it to him, but he refused it with a look Peter could only describe as defiant. Was he ignoring his illness? 

"Because you need help and like it or not, you became my friend at some point," May said, gentle but firm. "Now drink this water and stop talking." 

"No." He turned his head as she brought the glass forward. "I don't... need help. 'M fine, so get out of my lab." Mr. Stark wrapped his arms around himself, hands rubbing his biceps. Peter was kinda of shocked. His mentor had never spoken like that before, never just outright told him to get out. 

"Tony," May said, getting his attention again. Peter realized then that his aunt had been calling Mr. Stark by his first name. When dis they get on that basis? When did the become friends? Yeah, he noticed when May would threaten to call Mr. Stark if he didn't come back by curfew or eat his veggies, or encouraged him to call Tony when he got an A in something. "You are sick. You need some help that we will gladly give. Would you rather sit alone in this lab, suffering, or have some people who really care about you help you?" 

There was a long beat of silence before the inventor let out a heavy sigh that caused him to cough a handful of times while nodding begrudgingly. May helped him hold the glass as he finally drank from it, hands too uncoordinated to do it on his own. He was still clearly unsure about the entire thing, bringing his knees up toward his chest and curling a bit in on himself. 

His aunt took the glass away when he pulled away. "We're going to get you better, Tony. I promise. We won't stop until you're on your feet again," she said, standing up again. Peter nodded along, throat tight as he watched his father figure being hit by something that the teen couldn't defend him against. Mr. Stark nodded once again, wrapping his arms around his legs, energy seemingly spent as he rested his chin on his knees. He'd never seen the man look so... small. It was the only way he could describe it. 

May went over to the tray again and picked up two pills that he hadn't noticed at first, calling him over. Before Peter turned around, he thought he saw tears forming in Mr. Stark's eyes.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is far better than the last one, I think, I promise. Hope you enjoy!

May wrung her hands together nervously for a moment, looking down at the person she considered her friend as he laid limply on the couch. She was a nurse, but even this was difficult for her to watch for a few reasons, two of them being that he was her friend and he was so sick, looking almost like a fragile kitten. Five minutes before, they finally got some soup into Tony's stomach. Some as in very few spoonfuls because he thought he couldn't take anymore without throwing up. He was resting now, with May placing ice packs around him and pulling a thin blanket up to his neck. He was shivering and while he may have convinced Peter that he was asleep (the only reason the teen had been convinced he could leave to grab a water pitcher), May knew that he wasn't. He was a good faker, but she had dealt with many patients who pretended to be asleep. She got extra practice with Peter. When he was younger, he would try and hide under his blankets with a flashlight to read novels and comic books. Now she was catching him faking after coming into patrol late. 

"Tony," she said, tapping his shoulder lightly. His eyes opened instantly, still dull but thankfully aware. They'd managed to stop his fever from rising, but it had barely gone down. Hopefully the medicine from earlier would start to kick in soon. "Why didn't you call for help? You had to know that you had a fever higher than you could handle. Friday said you disengaged protocol." She wasn't sure if questioning him now was quite the right move. The question had been burning inside her since she saw him with his head down on the work table and unmoving. She had never known someone who wouldn't pick up the phone and text someone if they were running a 104 fever. Of course, Tony wasn't exactly someone people called 'normal' due to his maniac genius ways and superhero job, but did he really think he could handle this all on his own? 

The genius shrugged, not giving her a verbal answer, which was expected with how he looked like absolute crap and he didn't usually talk about his feelings much. At all. He started coughing again and she helped him sit up, slipping another one of the pillows that Dum-E, the friendly robot that Peter told her about in many happy rambles, had brought from the closet behind his back. They were old and thin, and she thought they should get better ones - there had to be some quality pillows in this giant building.The robot was currently in the small kitchen area of the lab, making a smoothie out of healthy fruits and a substantial amount of motor oil. She cringed, but the bot was so happy to help that she didn't say anything. She would dump the smoothie in the trash when he wasn't looking. 

"He does that," the man croaked after following her line of sight. She looked back at him and saw that his fever glazed eyes had a fond look to them, similar like what they had when he looked at Peter. May didn't think he realized that. "He wants to help, but he doesn't understand that humans don't need machine oil to work." He coughed a little into his elbow before he pushed the blanket away, his legs swinging over the side of the couch and effectively knocking some ice packs onto the floor. 

"No, no, no," she quickly chastised, voice firm yet gentle to try and coax him back to laying down, but he ignored her and started to stand. She pushed him back down lightly, him too tired to fight back yet defiance and other emotions burned in his eyes. He went to get up again and she repeated the action. "Tony, you're not getting off that couch until your fever has gone down, but then you're moving to an actual bed." She forced herself to sound a bit more firm and insistent despite how much just the sight if him made her heart ache with sympathy. 

"I'm fine, May," he sighed, voice rough and scratchy. Sweat was dripping from his temples and his face was haggard with exhaustion and sickness. He sat up, but didn't make a move to stand. "Just let me- I need to- gosh- ugh-" he placed his head in his hands for a brief second, taking a deep, shuttering breath that she could hear crackling in his overworked lungs. 

"What do you need to do?" She asked quietly, moving beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder, offering support in the best way she could. The woman sat down beside him gingerly as she rubbed some small, comforting circles into his arm with her thumb. This was stretching the usual bounds of their friendship, she thought, but she could tell he was in pain and right now she was the only one available to try and help him. "Peter can handle some repairs. I'm 100% sure Pepper wouldn't make you work when sick. You can take a few days off to heal-"

He cut her off, voice harsh. "I don't need a few days off. I don't need anyone to take care of anything for me. I need to work and prove-" he stopped, raising his head. His eyes were becoming more and more unfocused and he stared ahead, looking at something she couldn't see. He started trembling under her hand and she felt her stomach twist with the worry surging through her. Emotions were flipping across his face faster than she could process, but she could see the turmoil and fear in his dark brown eyes. 

"Prove what?" She couldn't stop herself from asking. What was getting Tony so worked up that he didn't think he could rest? What was pressing on his mind that he didn't feel like he could stop even when he was burning with fever? May had never seen him like this - he was always so cool and collected, a joke or snappy comment always ready on his lips. She'd never even seen him without his hair gelled back. It was then that she recalled the protocol in her mind and winced inwardly. The name had thrown her for a loop and she was now completely certain it meant something. "Tony, does this have something to do with the name of that protocol?"

He paused for a long minute and then inclined his head a little in affirmation. "I ... I can't. I can't be weak, May," his words are mumbled and it sounded like he was bordering on unconsciousness, but his eyes were expressing deep panic. "I can't. I just can't. Being sick or hurt is weakness. It would make me weak. I'm weak. Stark... Stark men are made of Iron. What Dad said." Tony slumped back, energy drained out of him. He was shaking badly and his eyes were shining, glazed over with both fever and.... were those tears? Subconsciously, she moved her hand from his shoulder to wrap her arm around his back, pulling him toward her slowly so he could rest his head on her shoulder. 

It's the sickness, she thought, it's causing him to say things that he wouldn't under other circumstances. She thought about all the times he would wince at a light touch to the shoulder, then play it off with a smile. Or when he wore sunglasses all day when he took them to the movie theater for a special day out after a battle the previous day. She always asked him if he was okay, but he would brush off her concern and change the subject. She had never pressed before, but now she really wished she had. At least after they had gotten to know each other better. Maybe if she had, he would have felt like he could call for help when he needed it. Wanted it. 

After a long minute of listening to his shuddering breaths, she removed her arm from him and got off the couch, kneeling down so they were face to face. He avoided her gaze, but she found his as she grabbed his hands, cradling them in hers. He was blinking rapidly, the dark bags under his eyes seeming to stand out more. "Tony, you are not weak. That is not a word I would use to describe who you are," she whispered, trying to calm him down. She didn't need Friday to tell her to know that his temperature had risen. She could see it in his deep red cheeks and feel it in the quivering hands. "Everyone needs to rest at some point, okay? It doesn't make you weak. You are brave, strong, kind, generous, and witty, but not weak. I don't care what your father said." Howard Stark was obviously not the icon many people thought he was if he was able to shake up his son so much that it affected him twenty-five years after his death.

Tony's eyes were conflicted, his eyebrows coming together. He was having an internal war, that much was obvious, but at least her words had an effect on him. "But what about Peter?" He asked, voice more open than she had ever heard as he expressed genuine concern for her nephew, someone who was basically his son, even if he wouldn't admit it. 

"What about him?" She asked, throughly confused. 

"He looks up to me, for some reason. He sees me as... invincible. He's seeing me... like this. Sick. It shouldn't be... this way. He shouldn't be the one taking care of me. I'm supposed to take care of him. I'm supposed to... protect him. Make him happy." He looked so vulnerable in those moments and it caused a hand to squeeze around her heart. He cared so much for Peter that it made her own heart squeeze with fondness. She knew Tony wasn't a person who shared his feelings often and she hated that it took a burning sickness stripping away his walls for him to talk about caring for someone. She hoped that maybe, just maybe, that if he remembered any of this later on it would have a positive impact. There was a chance he would shut himself away, but there was also a possibility he would be able to see that he could open up to people without getting hurt. That he could open up to them. 

"Tony, listen to me," she said, still gentle but firm. "Peter would not think you weak for being sick. He wants you to let him take care of you, okay? He wants to help you. He looks up to you because you're his mentor and long-time hero. You've protected him from everything you can and done more than you think." The words rolled out of her mouth easily, her heart taking control of her head. Her friend needed to hear this. He had to hear this. She desperately hoped he would understand because he didn't need to sadle anything else on his shoulders. He already walked like the weight of the world was settled on his back when he thought no one was looking. 

"I'm supposed to.."

"We all need help sometimes. Peter wants to help you. I want to help you. I know it's hard, but you need to let us help you. We're here for you," she said. His breathing had turned into a very audible wheeze, more than before. It was only a matter of time before he crashed and May wanted to soften that fall as best she could, both physically and mentally. He said nothing, his throat convulsing and adam's apple bobbing up and down like he was trying not to cry. His eyes were clouded with moisture and a tear soon moved down his cheek, a testament to just how much he needed to hear that and how sick he was to allow himself to cry in front of others. She wiped it away with her thumb gently, that hand around her heart squeezing impossibly tighter. "C'mon, you need to lay down." 

He shrugged for a brief second against her as she carefully lowered him back down. It was clear as day to her that he still didn't want to rest, but didn't exactly have have any energy to fight back at the moment. Her hand grazed his side and he pulled in a sharp breath, eyes wide with pain. The reaction surprised her before she remembered then that he was injured and she mumbled curses at herself for not looking at the damage sooner. "Raise up a little," she coaxed him, helping him sit up slightly, carefully avoiding his side this time. "I need to get your hoodie off." 

He made a small sound of protest as she wrestled him out of the well-worn and undoubtedly loved hoodie as gently as possible, leaving him in a light blue t-shirt. She raised it up slowly, revealing a cascade of purple, yellow, and red bruises that made her grimace. "Oh, Tony," she said softly, sympathy welling up in her. She grabbed one of the wrapped ice packs from the floor and gently pressed it to his side. He let out a hiss of breath, body stiffening before slowly relaxing again. "Friday, are his ribs broken?" She asked concernedly. If they were, they had an even bigger problem on their hands. At least they didn't have to take him to the hospital for X-rays.

Although she wasn't certain they wouldn't be going to the hospital. She briefly glanced up at his face, noting how clouded his eyes were and the increasing paleness of his skin despite the medicine now in his system. The noise in his lungs had not gotten any quieter and Friday's earlier words about him being very at risk for bronchitis and pneumonia reverberated in her ears. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that he had one of the two and she leaning toward the latter. He was looking at her, but at the same time he wasn't. His eyes were trained on a spot beside her head and his eyes face was blank and showing his exhaustion visibly with the wrinkles on his face that usually disappeared with his facial expressions. The lucidity that had been in his eyes not five minutes ago was rapidly leaving his irisiles, leaving him with a fever glaze over his eyes that mixed with the unshed tears. He didn't even seem to recognize that the AI and woman were talking about him, something he would usually joke about. 

"No, ma'am," she replied, causing May to let out a sigh of relief as she continued to inspect the bruises. "They're fractured, but boss didn't seek out medical help after making sure Peter was okay." There was a note of disapproval in her Irish tone that May reflected silently, but this was no time to give her idiot-genius friend a lecture on self care. He most likely wouldn't remember it later and she would rather wait and plan out her speech before giving it to him. Maybe something might stick in his thick head of his if she did that, and she'd attach a sticky note to his shirt just to be sure. Those usually got Peter's attention and those two were a lot alike despite not being related. They may as well be with how well they mimicked each other without realizing it. It was endearing that he made sure Peter was okay, but he kept putting his life at risk when he could have been bandaged within less than fifteen minutes. He was too self sacrificial for his own good. 

She knew that the injury most likely happened in battle, but there had been a few recently and she needed to know the exact time frame to access just how bad the injury could be. "When did it happen?" She asked as she looked around for an emergency kit. 'He better have one,' she thought, eyes scanning the lab quickly. What billionaire, genius, engineer who often blew things up in a lab and fought in an armored suit wouldn't have emergency supplies? Glancing at him once again, she took that back. Tony was clearly an enigma to self care, something he had established multiple times. He might not have volunteered to have one, but she guessed Pepper, his loving girlfriend, would have forced him to have one. 

"In the battle two days ago. Boss was thrown into a building and the armor was dented heavily, resulting in three fractures, one on each rib," the AI responded promptly. "The medical kit is on the wall to your left. Be careful around the blow torch," she advised and May nodded, pulling herself up to her feet. After one more glance at Tony to make sure he was fine, she looked in the directed area.

Aftera moment, she spotted the white box. May ran over - carefully keeping a wide berth to anything that looked remotely like a flame thrower (so everything) - and snatched it up, noting that it was state of the art and heavy, most likely full. She popped it open as she came back to Tony's side, pulling out the bandages and bruise ointment she would need. The age of the fracture and the types of bruising helped her determine that the injury most likely hadn't been worsened from what it was and would hopefully heal correctly. Tony watched her through have lidded eyes for a few seconds as she spread a generous amount of the ointment over her fingers and removed the ice pack. "Wut're you doin'?" He slurred. She wasn't surprised in the change of speech with how spaced out he had been, so she took it in stride, pushing her worry back so she could focus on the pressing injury at hand. 

"Bandaging you up," she answered simply before beginning to spread the near translucent cream over his side. He flinched back violently, trying to move away from her hand but the couch at his back preventing him from going far. "Sorry," she whispered multiple times as she spread the cold ointment over the bruises, trying to be as gentle as possible. Once done, she helped him lean forward before wrapping the wound up expertly, thanking her medical training for the thousandth time. It helped when you knew two superheroes who liked to get into trouble, although this was only the second time she had bandaged Tony.

The first time was when he begrudgingly allowed her to stitch his arm up after he cut it in the lab. She had only noticed because when he was dropping Peter off at their apartment door, his black jacket sleeve was a smidge darker than the other and the wrist of that sleeve had been bound a little too tightly by a strap. Even then, she had to be very persuasive to get him to stay at the apartment longer and allow her to see the wound. It had been like pulling teeth to convince him to allow her to help, and she was aware that the only reason he was allowing her to help now was because he was mostly out of it and unable to fight back with the severe illness thrumming through his body. 

Soon, Tony was laid back on the pillows where she strategically placed the ice packs over him again. He shivered as the ice fought to lower his fever, clashing harshly with his burning skin. She rubbed her arm as she tried to suppress the thoughts of the hospital she'd had earlier, praying to God they wouldn't get to that point. Right now, the future was bleak. If his fever kept persisting like it was, they would have no choice but to haul him to the nearest clinic, even if he had found the energy to kick and scream? Would it be worse if he begged not to go? 

She silently pondered why Tony had avoided any medical help, even when it was offered to him at the scene of battle. He wasn't stupid - far from it - so he had to know when something was getting bad. Was he scared of hospitals? How far did this 'no hospitals' mentality extend to? How many of his wounds had he nursed himself? How many stitches? How many migraines had he battled through thinking that it would be weak to take a few hours and rest because of the thoughts put into his head by stupid Howard Stark? How many times had he told himself he'd been weak to be sick or injured? For how long had this been going on? The questions swirled in her head, leaving a sick churning feeling in her stomach from all the worry. 

"Aunt May?" She turned to see Peter standing at the door, holding a pitcher of water in one hand, a cooler in the other, another blanket tucked under his arm, and a bowl of water balanced on his head. She didn't know how he was walking with all of that, but chalked it up to his weird spider balance. The woman offered him a small smile instead of the laugh that would usually leave her when she saw him doing something like this, walking over to him. She took the bowl and blanket so he could put the other things down, settling them on the table. Her nephew looked over at his currently dazed mentor, who was just staring at the ceiling mutely. "Is he going to be okay?" He whispered. Something danced through his eyes, an emotion or thought that she couldn't interpret right now, and May decided to ask him what was up later. 

"He'll be fine," she tried to assure, but she didn't know if she believed her own words. Tony was extremely sick, enough to get rid of his brain to mouth filter and accidentally spill things that he kept close to his chest. In the past ten minutes, she had watched him fall completely apart with no control over the words that tumbled out of him. "But I want to get more water in him before he goes back to sleep. Could you help him sit up?" She asked as she refilled the glass and brought it over. "Be careful with his side."

"His side?" Peter asked, blinking his brown eyes owlishly. It made him look years younger than he was, kind of like the three year old boy that she and Ben had taken into their home permanently after his parents died. She nodded grimly, hating that she had to be the one to deliver the news of his mentor's injuries and gripped the glass tightly, trying to bring herself at least a little comfort from having something physical to hang onto. "His left side," she specified, pointing to it as Peter slowly and carefully moved Tony to sit up and lean against the back of the couch. He barely responded to the teen moving him, eyes unfocused as his lips moved wordlessly. "Three of his ribs are fractured."

"Fractured?" He asked, voice going up several octaves. Her nephew was clearly alarmed and she tried to calm him down by placing her hand on his shoulder, trying to being as much comfort to him as she possibly could. After nodding her confirmation to Peter, she brought the clear cup to his mouth thankful that Peter had thought to get a straw. A few seconds passed before the liquid began to work its way up the tube and she sighed with quiet relief as he drained most the glass before slumping back against the couchions. The fever had undoubtedly burned through a lot of the water in his body and he hadn't drank nearly enough to rehydrate himself yet, but this was a start. Peter guided his father figure to lay back down, eyes showing deep concern as Tony stared at something across the lab listlessly, her own heart heavy with worry. 

═══⊹⊱❖⊰⊹═══

Peter didn't really know what to do now. 

It was near midnight and they had managed to get Mr. Stark as comfortable as possible on the old lab couch, propped up a little by the pillows they had stolen from a spare guest room and bandages wrapped around his chest to support his injured ribs. His arms were limply crossed, head tilted back slightly as a wheeze made itself known with every breath he took. His clothes were already as comfortable as they could be - sweatpants and t-shirt - and his hair was a matted mess on the top of his head, sweat and oil mixing together in his dark bangs. His skin was pale, a sharp contrast to his damp hair, his cheeks a sickly shade of pink and his eyes sunken with dark bags. He'd. Ever even seen Mr. Stark sleep before, much less basically unconcious, and this was the third time he had seen him like that in one day. 

The elder man kept attempting to turn onto his injured left side, which the teen and his aunt constantly had to stop. They eventually fixed this problem by placing an ice pack there and he hadn't tried to turn over since. Not long ago, Peter had ran upstairs and brought down two armchairs from the livingroom because they planned to stay there for a while. The action gave him something to occupy his mind for a bit, but now he was curled up in the armchair by his mentor's head, arms wrapped around his knees as he watched the stuttering rise and fall of his chest. His super hearing could pick up every crack and pop in his lungs, every beat of his physically and emotionally damaged heart, and each shudder in rythm made his own heart skip beats. 

May was curled up in the chair across from him, sitting side ways so her knees were near to her neck. Her arms were folded on them and her head rested there, her eyes closed and breathing regular. Despite being asleep, there was a tension in her shoulders and deep worry lines on her forehead. Peter never knew how close his aunt and mentor were and it felt a little like a dream. They hadn't exactly met on good terms, with the lie about Peter's internship and going to Germany. He liked that they were friends, but he wished he had realized that in a better situation than this one. 

Peter hadn't told her, but he had been outside the door to the lab while she and Mr. Stark had been talking. He knew it was bad to snoop, but he had heard his mentor say his name and he had paused right outside the frosted glass door, sensitive ears picking up every word no matter how quietly it had been spoken. Mr. Stark was worried about Peter seeing him that way? Hearing that had rocked him to his core and he'd stood outside, white noise in his ears as his thoughts bounced around in his brain. It took him a few long minutes to get himself moving again and he tried not to show that he heard the talk. He was pretty sure the only reason Aunt May didn't see it on his face was that she was preoccupied with helping Mr. Stark. Honestly, he was relieved she hadn't questioned him. He wasn't even sure what he was thinking, much less what he was doing. He only did what May said, body buzzing with anxious energy. 

With nothing to distract him, his thoughts ran wild in his head. He pulled his eyes from Mr. Stark to the ceiling, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds of the lab around him. The air conditioner unit was running hard to try and lower Mr. Stark's fever, but otherwise the usually loud lab was quiet, with only the breathing of three other people to interrupt the vacant silence. He could hear Dum-E where he was sweeping the corner of the room almost mindlessly. He was kind of like Peter - looking for something to do and taking every opportunity to do something, even if it wasn't productive.

The sound of something hitting the ground made him open his eyes and spin around, senses dialed up to twelve with all that had happened. Dum-E had dropped the broom on the ground, but it must have knocked against one of the numerous work tables because there was now a wrench on the ground, too. The bot's claw spun around in a manner that could only be described as dejected and sad, beeping at the teen pitifully. With a small sigh, Peter uncurled himself from the chair and stood, his back popping as he stretched briefly. How long had he been sitting down? Longer than he thought, apparently. He took one quick glance at Mr. Stark to make sure he hadn't woken up in the minute he looked away - still sleeping - before making his way over to the sentient bot. Dum-E really was an amazing creation, with a fun personality and an intelligence that beat all other AIs, but he could live up to his name sometimes. 

"Here you go, buddy," he said quietly, picking up the wood broom and putting the wrench back where it belonged. To anyone else, the tables full of tools looked messy, but Peter knew the chaos was actually very organized. It had taken him a day or two to learn, but then the process became smooth. He could pass Mr. Stark any tool without looking away from his own project now. Dum-E beeped at him again, claw looking toward Tony and May before turning back to him, more beeps following the action. He didn't need his mentor or Friday to translate what he was trying to ask. "Mr. Stark is gonna be just fine, Dum," he put as much conviction in his voice as he could, trying to imitate Tony when he was saying May's meatloaf was spectacular. He patted the bots claw comfortingly, forcing a (hopefully) convincing smile on his face. 

The camera studied him for a few long moments where Peter's heart nearly flew out of his chest, but there was a small chirp that somehow sounded a lot like credence, spinning his claw around once before taking the broom back and turning back to his task of diligently moving dirt around. At least he wasn't trying to clean using a fire extinguisher. That seemed to be his favorite object. A small, genuine smile stretched onto his face as he watched the robot that was nearly two times older than him yet acted so young. He cared for Tony just as Peter did - like a son to a father. 

The thought made him gasp, covering his mouth as if he had blurted the words out. This wasn't the first time today that he thought of Mr. Stark as his father, or thought of him by his first name, but that mindset continued to surprise him. Mr. Stark was his boss and he didn't think of Peter like that - or did he? His mind flashed back to the conversation he had overheard and all the times May commented that they were alike. Yeah, it was easy to see certain similarities - they were both engineers who adored science and were known superheroes, even if Peter's identity wasn't out there. But there were also smaller similarities that May would helpfully point out over dinner. They both raised their left eyebrows when questioning something, they rubbed the back of their necks when nervous, and they even shared the same love of music. Their humor mixed together in just the right chemistry to get a whole room laughing until they cried and they were already dubbed an infamous superhero duo by The Daily Bulge. 

Peter would be a liar if he said he didn't love his mentor like a father. Throughout his life, Peter had two different father figures, both of which passed in horrible situations that statistics said was unlikely to happen, especially twice to one family. The teen was scared to let anyone else become his father figure because he was afraid it actually was his curse - to never have a father figure last more than a couple of years. It was more than his rotten Parker Luck to him because it felt like he had actually been cursed by the universe, forever punished. He knew that was irrational to think, but he couldn't help his thought process after so many traumatic events. 

Last year, he accepted he would never have another person in his life to be like his father. He had no other uncles or even cousins in his family due to the small amount of Parkers and he had accepted it was just be him and May against the world. But then Mr. Stark walked into his life, all tough love and encouraging words, easily slinging his arm over the teen's shoulders and asking him what was up. He thought they would just remain professional friends, but Peter got too close to people for that to happen and Mr. Stark's comfort and assistance didn't exactly help. He'd become like a father to Peter. 

Was that why he was sick? Did his curse strike again? Would Mr. Stark actually die from sickness and not old age or even while doing a heroic deed? His stomach twisted into knots at the questions and he felt like he was going to throw up as he clamped his hand harder over his mouth. Gosh, he was being so irrational.... but the more he thought about it, the more it felt true. The more it felt like he actually had a curse. Mr. Stark had never been sick since he'd known him and now he was deathly pale on the couch, sick on the very day Peter admitted to himself he felt that Mr. Stark was like his father figure. Was there any other explanation besides his No-Father-Figure curse?

A sound broke him out of his spiraling reverie. Thinking Dum-E had done something, he dropped his hand, looking back at where he found the bot was still sweeping, oblivious to the small clattering sound Peter had head. Was it just his imagination? Was he genuinely going insane? He heard it again, this time followed by faint footsteps on hard wood floor that even his advanced hearing could barely pick up. His heart started hammering in his chest, fear and adrenaline moving through his veins. Someone was breaking into the Avengers Compound. 

Completely silent, he moved toward the door, opening it and slipping outside. He whispered the code word to Friday for a lock down of the lab and he watched as the glass tinted and the door enable different locks. He then asked the AI for any information on the intruder, but his question was met with eerie silence. A chill crawled up Peter's spine and he clenched his hands into fists. Did the criminal break her systems somehow? No, no that wouldn't be right. Then she wouldn't have been able to lock the door. Or could she? He cursed his lack of knowledge on Friday. Mr. Stark was going to let him thoroughly examine her code on their next internship day and there was no time for him to look at it now. 

He slunk up the stairs and down the hall like a superspy from some of his favorite movies. The teen could almost imagine himself in one of of those movies - caught off guard and dressed in casual clothes, with only his instincts and skills to help him. All he needed was a camera following him around and he would have had an epic spy scene that people would pay to get. Well, it actually might he on camera if Fri... he shook his head forcefully as he stepped into the living room. 'Get your head in the game, Parker,' he thought. 'You have to protect May and Dad.' 

It took him a second to process what he had just thought and when he did, he almost lost his balance. He'd already admitted to feeling like his mentor was his father figure, but to refer to him as 𝐃𝐚𝐝.. what would Mr. Stark think? What would May think? What would his biological dad and Uncle Bem think? What did he even think? Was he okay with his brain doing that without a second thought? Did he just seal his mentor's fate and his? Did he just solidify his curse? He sounded crazy to even himself, but his heart was pumping like it was trying to run a marathon with the best athletes in the world. 

He was so immersed in his own thoughts that Peter almost didn't see the shadow against the far wall. Almost. It came from around the corner, meaning the intruder had yet to see him. Flexing his wrists, Peter silently cursed himself for not bringing his web shooters from the apartment or grabbing any of the dangerous tools that resided in his mentor's lab. So instead, he grabbed the nearest thing to him. A moment later, he had a green plastic Star Wars light saber and was running toward the enemy just as the figure rounded the corner. He subconsciously noticed that the form looked vaguely familiar, but all he cared about were the two undefended people in the lab. 

Peter's brain moved faster than his feet and he was able to accurately judge the distance and speed needed to knock down the muscled man. Once at the right point, he launched himself into the air, doing a near complete front flip. He straightened his legs mid air just in time for them to hit the trespasser in his broad chest. The force of it allowed him to backflip again, landing in a crouch. The man had tumbled backward and despite the amount of strength Peter put into the attack (maybe a little too much), he was already beginning to get back up. 'Oh, no you don't,' the teen thought, a small snarl forming on his face as he held the weapon (toy, his brain supplied) to the man's neck, pressing it into the middle of his throat rather forcefully. 

The man was wearing all black (leather jacket, black shirt, black cargo pants, and black combat boots) with a ski mask covering his face, the typical robber look. But what normal criminal was insane and smart enough to break into the Avengers base and disable an AI that could take down the United States's government in seconds? As Peter debated his next move, a clothed hand moved toward the ski mask. "Hey, keep your arms at your sides-" the teen barked, a harshness to his voice that he himself was surprised about. There was no time to question it, however, as the intruder continued to reach toward his face. Moving slowly, but not obeying Peter. He was about to wack his hand with the toy when his fingers reached the fabric. A second later, the mask was ripped off and Peter almost dropped the light saber. 

Sky blue eyes with flecks of green stared back at him, the outfit now looking very out of place when coupled with those expressive eyes. He had a mouth pressed into a thin line and a jaw tight with either annoyance, stress, or confusion. Maybe all three. A young face was marked with worry lines and usually neat blonde hair hung shaggiky over the forehead of a well known face. The weak moon light coming from the adjacent window may have been dim, but there was no mistaking the face of exiled, criminal superhero Steve Rogers in front of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Every since I joined the MCU fandom, I have loved sick and hurt Tony stories. They are my life. Then I went looking for stories where May takes care of Tony. I may have found three, but two were very short and May didn't usually play a very big roll. So, one day, I decided 'why don't I just make my own story?' and bing, bang, boom, this came into existence. I promise the second chapter is better than this one.


End file.
